Jazz.

'Do you like jazz?' he asked. The boy kicked his foot against the side of the bus shelter. 'I like it,' he said. 'You waiting for the 505?'

'Yeah,' I said.

'It's always late.'

'Yeah?'

'Yeah. Sometimes it doesn't even show up. I'm gonna go see my mum. I was late last time and she didn't like it.'

'I can imagine.'

The boy slipped his hand into the back pocket of his jeans. He pulled out a scrap of paper.

'Wanna see a picture?'

'Sure.'

He handed it over. It seemed to have been torn from a magazine.

'My brother. He's in America. I'm gonna go see him next year when he gets out of the Navy and we're gonna hitch around. See stuff. Y'know?'

'I like his hat,' I said. I gave back the picture.

'Whaddya mean, hat?'

'It's a good hat.'

'He's an officer.'

The boy sat down beside me on the bench. His legs jiggled.

'So, do you like jazz?' he said.

'Actually, I do.'

'Yeah? What else do you like?'

I pulled the zip closed on my backpack. I tucked it between my knees. I said nothing for a moment.

'I like lots of music,' I said.

'Gangsta's where it's at.' He smiled. 'I've got a piece. The police don't know nothing. I keep it here in my sock. The police don't know anything about it.'

'Okay,' I said.